


They Were Seven

by EddardStark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-15
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EddardStark/pseuds/EddardStark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Group of one-shots about unspecified parts in a Song of Ice and Fire</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They Were Seven

They were seven, bound together unto death for a single purpose. The spire was in the distance, far above the shifting sands, almost level with the majestic mountains. The battles were won, the king struck down. A new man sat the Iron Throne, but none were thinking of him, or the crown.

They were seven, determined and brave.

Lord Stark rode at the head, hair blowing in the hot wind. His father and his brother were gone forever. He would not lose her as well.

Beside him was Howland Reed, the crannogman, Lord of the Greywater Watch.

Between them him was Ethan Glover, hard and unyielding, all the happiness taken out of him when his friends were slain before his very eyes.

Next to him was Martyn Cassel, proud features etched upon his gaunt face as he rode, remembering the son he left behind, hoping he would remember him in turn.

Lord William Dustin rode off to the side, guarding their flanks on his great red stallion, memories of his wife's last kiss on his lips. He dug his spurs into the horse's side and rode on.

Theo Wull rode behind them all, thinking of the girl he left behind, her last words and the feel of her against him.

Ser Mark Ryswell rode as well, trying to lighten the mood as they rode on, intent on the ever-growing spire ahead of them.

They were seven, different all, united in one final purpose.

Lord Stark called out a word and the reined up as one and three men walked slowly out of the tower.

Ser Oswell Whent sat on the sand, sharpening his sword, trying as hard as he could to avoid looking at Ryswell.

The White Bull, Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stood, cape billowing out as he tried to find the words to say to the men who stood before him.

Beside him was Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, his pale blade poking over the top of his shoulder.

A hidden glance seemed to pass through Ned and Arthur.

They were seven, facing three.

"I looked for you on the Trident," Lord Eddard said to the three.

"We were not there," The White Bull replied in his deep, resonating tones.

"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," Whent added.

"When the Red Keep fell to Tywin and the King was slain by your brother, we wondered where you were."

"We were far way," Ser Gerold said, " or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne and our false brother would burn in the seven hells."

"When I lifted the siege on Storm's End Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne bent the knee. I was certain you would be with them," Ned said quietly.

"The knees of the Kingsguard do not bend easily," Arthur Dayne said with a half-smile.

"Willem Darry has fled with the queen and young Viserys. We thought you to be with them." Ned said, moving slowly inwards. The six moved with him.

"The Kingsguard do not flee," Ser Oswell Whent said, standing up slowly.

"Then or now," Gerold said, drawing his sword with an ominous rasp of steel.

"We swore a vow," The Sword of the Mornng said, donning his helm."

"Now it begins," The three said in unison.

"No," This time it was it was Howland Reed, moving in, spear in hand. "Now it ends."

"The Knight of the Laughing Tree," mused Ser Gerold, "You will be the first to die."

The seven charged with a thunderous roar of hooves as the three moved forward.

For a moment, all was silent.

Then, the quiet Dornish desert was filled with screams and battle cries.

They were seven, five were doomed to die.

Lord Dustin crashed into Oswell When with a tremendous clatter and jumped from the stallion.

The blades sang as they kissed and danced away, flickering in the sun. Dustin spun away and attacked Whent once more, driving him back as he checked the first blow, deflected the next and unleashed an attack that drove Ser Oswell into the side of a sand dune.

Oswell rolled, kicking up sand as he avoided more blows. He drove a mailed fist into Lord Dustin's side. Their blades sang the song of steel as they clashed again and again. Dustin stumbled and the razor sharp steel bit into his shoulder.

Another slash and his arm was gone. In a blink of an eye, Lord William was on his side, the black bat of House When above his head. His last thoughts were of red stallions and forgotten promises.

They were six, facing three.

Ryswell saw Lord Dustin fall, clutching his arm and jumped into the fray, trying desperately to reach his good-brother. He saw his old friend sever his head from his body and let out a wordless cry of despair.

He drove his sword into Oswell's arm, and then kicked him off the point of his blade.

" Hello Oswell," Ser Mark said evenly, as if they had met on the kingsroad.

"It's been too long, my old friend," Whent replied, calmly rubbing his bloody arm. "When was the last we saw each other? When I knighted you after the battle with the Kingswood Brotherhood?"

"I believe so," Ryswell said with a sad smile.

"I'm sorry it has to end this way."

"As am I," Ryswell said, moving in.

He flew at him with a fury, slashing with a fevered strength. Oswell fell bak a step, than another. He intercepted every blow, but couldn't touch Ryswell.

Mark Ryswell swung a wicked backhand, biting into Whent's side and cutting through mail like wet wool. As Whent fell, he slashed wildly, finding Ryswell's neck. And so the two friends died on each other's swords.

They were five, facing two.

Ethan Glover flew at the White Bull, crying, " Brandon! For Brandon Stark!" Their blades danced in the dying sun, light running down the length of their blades as they whirled and spun.

"You were there, weren't you?" Ethan snarled when the dance brought them together.

The Bull nodded, sadness on his face. "I am sorry for the loss of your friend. But that won't stop your death." He twirled with a grace that defied his age and ran at Glover.

He checked the first blow, ducked under a second and sidestepped a third. The fourth flashed out and stabbed his leg. He fell to one knee.

From one knee he gazed up at the White Bull and through a film of tears asked, barely choking back a sob, " Did he die bravely? Did he beg?"

"He begged for his fathers life, and not for his own. He died well, I grant him that," the White Bull lied.

"Brandon. I'm coming…" Ser Gerold brought his sword down in a deadly arc.

They were four, facing two.

Martyn Cassel and Theo Wull rode together, towards the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. They circled around, riding at him at opposite angles. Hightower's sword flashed and they both fell to the ground, their horses screaming as they died.

"Let us dance," Hightower said, leveling his sword at the two approaching men.

They attacked in a fury, blades in a flurry, as each man fought for their lives.

The White Bull's blade seemed to have a life of it's own, blocking blades before they could move, spinning and hammering his opponents to the ground.

Theo Wull struggled to get up, trying to rise under the blows of Hightower's sword. Martyn Cassel's sword intercepted the Bull's and Theo stood up. He rushed the Lord Commander and bowled him over. As he raised his sword, another stabbed his back.

"Ned," He rasped, "I'm sorry." The last thing he saw was a pale blade sticking out of his chest, and Martyn Cassel slumped to the ground.

"Jory," He moaned.

They were two, facing two.

Howland Reed approached the old man, spear held out in front of him warily. He jabbed at the chinks in his armor, and before long, the White Bull was bleeding heavily.

Howland threw his spear aside and drew a sword. The blades rasped as they clashed, clanging each time the hit. The Bull was breathing heavily, tired of the battle.

Howland's sword flashed down, and cut off Hightower's hand.

"Never, thought, a crannogman." The sword slashed and his head rolled.

They were two, facing one.

Ned drew Ice, watching all of his friends dying around him. He watched Dayne, circling around the bloodstained sand and moved in. They began the dance.

They slashed and parried, entangled in the fiery dance of life and death. Each time their blades touched, they were drawn so close they almost touched. Dayne was overpowering him, driving him back across the sand. Ned slipped, his hand stretching out to break his fall.

He hit the ground and tried to stand up, but a boot in the stomach put him down.

"Ashara won't ever forgive me for this," Arthur sighed, his hands entwined on the hilt of Dawn.

"Do it, Dayne."

"As you wish, my lord of snow." The blade descended, and Ned saw everything.

Howland Reed, leaping over the dunes, trying to reach his liege lord. Arthur Dayne, tears running down his cheeks as he brought his sword on his friends' neck.

Time resumed as normal as Howland bowled into Ned, taking the sword on his arm. The pale sword bit through it easily, parting skin, flesh and sinew as easily as a hot knife through butter.

Ned leapt up and swung Ice hard, meeting Arthur's eyes even as the head rolled into the shadow of the tower.

They were two of seven, united in joy and sadness.

Ned climbed the stairs, towards where he knew his sister would lay. Howland lay unconscious on a bed downstairs, his arm bound in silk.

He pushed through the door, where Lyanna lay on the bed, clutching a bunch of blue roses.

"Ned. You came," She breathed, sighing with happiness. "Rhaegar, how is he?"

"Robert killed him on the Trident," Ned said the news lightly, watching her face carefully.

She breathed in heavily and laughed wistfully. "Did I really cause all of his? I didn't know that we could've caused this. We only wanted to live together."

"I know Lya."

"It's too late now, it's too late. My son, where is my son?" Lyanna Stark asked, tears running down her face as she looked at her brother and son.

"Right here Lya. What will he be named?" Ned asked, the squalling baby in his arms, arms waving.

"Jon. Jon Targaryen. Does, does he look like his papa?"

"Yes," Ned lied.

"He will never have the name of his father, will he?"

"Lya, I…"

"As you say Lyanna."

"And Ned?"

"Yes, Lya?"

"Protect him. Oh, please protect him."

"Lyanna, I don't think it wise-"

"Promise me Ned," She said forcefully.

Ned chuckled. " I could never refuse you anything Lya, for love or honor. I will raise him as my own. I promise Lya."

"Will you take me back?"

"Of course."

"Then I will leave you now. Watch Jon. Love him. Reveal him when it's time."

"I promise."

"Tell Father and Brandon I love them. I'm going to meet Rhaegar."

"Give him my regards."

Her eyes closed and Ned wiped a tear off her face. He turned and left the room, hastily wiping tears away. It would not do for his bannerman to see him like this.. Jon and his children will need a strong father.

They were three, riding hard across the Dornish desert. A cripple, a baby and a stony faced uncle.

"I promise Lya. I promise."


	2. Good Boots Are Hard toFind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some cats have claws

The man had left the safety of the Happy Port and entered the streets of Braavos. He wore brightly colored clothes, and had a bravos blade at his hip. He had a wisp of a beard on his comely face and a contented smile on his face.

She pushed her cart around, yelling "Clam, cockles and mussels! Fresh caught clams, cockles and mussels."

The man didn't notice her. That was his first mistake. Syrio had taught her long ago, in a different life. She had tried to sneak up on him, and missed every time, fool girl she had been.

She remembered a time much like this, in a different world, a different skin, a different name. Now she was no one, then, she was someone.

The night was cold and clear, as Arya of House Stark slipped along the walls of the Red Keep, intent on her prey. The man in front of her seemed to know nothing as she slipped to his side and made to grab him.

The man slipped away and she stumbled, hands out to steady her as she fell. The man grabbed her and pulled her up, chiding her as he went.

"What are you?" The man asked as she regained her footing.

"I am a girl."

"An ox more like. A girl would not fall. A girl would catch an old done man such as old Syrio."

"But…" The scruffy little girl started, eyes wide and indignant as she opened her mouth. Arya of House Stark had always been dirty, rolling around in some filth, talking with unwashed strangers.

"A girl would not argue," The man made to change her position. He moved her legs and arms, spreading her out until she was as flat as a lizard-lion floating in the bogs. He adjusted her one last time and tilted up her head.

"Just so," He nodded and moved away. "First you must learn balance, and then speed, and then agility. And then, only then will you catch Syrio. You must be as smooth as summer silk, fast as a deer, quiet as a shadow."

"Just so, Master Syrio," the girl bowed and moved away, trying her best to be silent, smooth and fast.

"Just so," agreed the water dancer, watching her slide away.

"Just so," he thought again. He walked away, thinking of another time, of fat cats and skinny swords, old done men and a house of black and white.

She moved on, sliding how Syrio had showed her, but, no. She was no one, no one had never met Syrio and no one never would, thanks to Meryn Trant.

The cat slipped into the alley, trailing the brightly colored man, hands on her knife. The cat stalked in the darkness, quiet as a shadow and swift as a deer.

The man glanced back and hurried along, face hidden as he forged ahead. Sounds of laughter echoed, it was time for the cat to make her move.

She slid up to him, smooth as summer silk. The man started, reaching for his sword as the cat.

Quick as a striking snake, she knocked the blade out of his hands and stood over him.

The man had a look of utmost terror on his face as he scrambled back from where she stood over him.

"What do you want from me?" The colorful man sobbed, on his hands and knees.

"A confession," the cat replied, knife in hand.

"I did nothing. If you want my money, I have it here," he worked up a hand in an inner pocket and drew out a heavy bag. He tossed it at her feet with a clang and resumed his sobbing.

The cat went to his side, hand on his shoulder and whispered, "Valar morghulis."

The knife opened his throat ear to ear and a red smile opened.

She took off the man's boots and dumped him into the river.

Good boots are hard to find.


End file.
